


Feathers and Antlers

by SunsetSwish



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Hurt/Comfort, Knight!James, M/M, Slow Burn, witch!Q
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7767328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunsetSwish/pseuds/SunsetSwish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A village and a witch in trouble. Then: a knight in the right place at a right time, as knights are supposed to be. That is the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers and Antlers

There is a village like any other in these lands. Neat little houses stand in neat rows and there are common plants filling the fields which stretch far around. It's the time not long before first harvest, when crops are grown enough not to require constant attention from the farmers. For this reason, the small number of people out in the fields isn't something unusual to the eyes of two knights passing through. However, the closer they come to the heart of the village, the clearer it becomes there is something else happening to draw people away from work. All kinds of them: from young mothers to village elders, mingle and whisper to each other as the apparent local leaders take the central spot next to a most unexpected thing.

The knight riding at the front, Sir James, feels disgust and mild anger rise within him at the sight. There is a stake with twigs and branches gathered in a pile, there is someone tied to a crooked pole at the centre of it and if the wispy tendrils of smoke rising from the bottom of it are any indication, he and sir William rode into the village just in time to see someone burn.

James has never in his life been naively idealistic but he'd been raised not to be cruel and this sort of thing cannot be accepted. Yes, any other time he would say that village matters are to be solved by the community itself, yet if people truly decide to rid themselves of an unwanted person, they should drive them out or cut them down and be done with it. Not like this. Moreover, someone dangerous enough to deserve burning should have been brought to the castle to face the Countess' justice. These people should be aware of this.

Bond rides farther in, with sir William following close behind, and soon he can see the face of the prisoner better. He is a young man of slender build and dark hair. He would seem calm, only Bond is familiar with the kind of expression he sees on the man's face. He'd seen it on battlefields plenty of times: a fear so strong it freezes men, keeps them from pleading for their lives, leaving them only able to accept the sword coming at them. This young man is as still as a statue, his eyes wide open but obviously avoiding looking at the gathered villagers. The fire at his feet seems to be lazy and slow to grow, likely held back by damp logs and lack of proper kindling after the rains which had watered these lands not long ago, and so he is still trapped in a moment before all hope is lost completely.

People at the edge of the crowd begin to notice the newcomers and turn to look at them, group by group. Murmurs grow in volume so the others notice too. They don't know what a pair of Countess' knights might be doing there, coming into the village from the direction opposite to the castle. Eventually the man at the stake spots them as well. His eyes widen at the unpredicted change in events and his lips move just so, as if he knows he has to speak now yet cannot find the words. Then, Bond hears him over the low noise of the crowd.

"My lord, please, I haven't done anything."

Someone immediately cries out "Witch!", with several others joining to agree they should have gagged the prisoner and issuing various threats, as if the man wasn't already in worst possible position.

Bond has already guessed that witchcraft is the case here, seeing as burning is reserved only for criminals the regular people are afraid of coming back for revenge. There is also the matter of the one sad feather remaining in the young man's hair. Bond can see it, the narrow smudge of lighter brown among dark curls. They must have taken all the other feathers from him, as well as other trinkets that witches are known to be so fond of. The knight would know, as he'd met a number of them over the course of his life. Out of those people, he only ever wanted to kill the few who happened to be hostile foreigners met on the battlefield or worse: proven traitors to their own country.

Bond very much doubts the one before them is any of those things. The bound man casts a fearful gaze at the villagers, then over Bond's left shoulder at Tanner behind him. The witch's voice is as soft as before when he repeats his plea and a claim of innocence. He doesn't have time to form any more sentences before the most vengeful men drown his voice out with their own.

Smoke is rising thick by then and a faint crackling sound can be heard from the fire at the bottom of the stack. Someone from the front of the crowd moves forward with his torch to speed the process along, forcing Bond to speak out at last.

"In what way has the man wronged you?" He makes himself properly heard over the constant murmuring.

"He's a witch, bringing his meddling where it's not wanted. He would have us all under spell, if allowed to run free any longer."

There are some protests to that but they are quickly silenced. Bond takes note of them and the way the witch glances at the protesting people furtively, than back at him.

"Your crops are heavy with good grain," the knight says. "I've seen fat sheep on my way here, all of your children appear to be healthy and none of you wear mourning tunics, so I ask you: what has the witch done here to deserve death?"

As he expected, this time several people begin to talk over each other with more or less vague accusations. Even if they were all the truth and put together, they would warrant nothing more than exile from the village, maybe a lashing. The accused man himself doesn't speak again, likely too proud to beg after he's already asked twice. He doesn't take his eyes off Bond, however, and they reflect all that he isn't saying.

Villagers part when the knight gets off his horse, although the more confident of them move to hinder him when he begins to make his way to the smoking stack. The villager at the front of the group raises his hands in a gesture meant to keep Bond from getting angry.

"My lord, why would you-"

"What I would or wouldn't do is not for you to know, decide or question." Bond snaps with more anger than he feels, because there simply isn't time for this anymore. He can see the witch bite into his lip to keep from crying out when the heat begins to truly lick at his feet. The knight doesn't fear stepping over the flames when they're still low and not spread evenly through the wood. And so he does exactly that - the stake wasn't set up on a fancy dais like they do in the cities so he needs only to approach from the side which hadn't properly caught fire yet, walk over and break some twigs under his boots to reach the central pole and cut the binds. The rope is thick and wound around its prisoner many times over, showing that the villagers were truly afraid of this wisp of a man. They were _made_ to be this afraid.

Up close more details are visible, like the smudges of dirt and soot on the witch's face and the way tears trail down it, belying the calm silence. The smell of burning wood and leaves is unavoidable here, unpleasant and harsh. If he lingered, soon smoke would become a hindrance by getting into his eyes. Bond pulls a dagger from the sheath at his belt and uses it skilfully. When the pieces of rope fall down he makes quick work of gathering the witch and throwing him over his shoulder to carry him out of the immediate threat, shaking stray sparks off his boots as he goes.

At this point sir William had already moved to assist James by silencing any further protests by placing himself between Bond and the villagers, with a hand held pointedly near the handle of his sword. It helps that he remains seated on his horse, a great beast of an animal, one of the best from the Countess' stables.

The witch is pliant, making no protests at being so roughly handled and pushed up onto the other horse. Thankfully he stays mostly upright and doesn't slide from the saddle, even though his wrists are still bound with a separate piece of rope. Bond quickly gets on the horse himself, keeping the witch in front of him and holds up the reins firmly around the slender body.

Disapproval and confusion spread through the crowd while no one is quite sure how they should act. Even though Bond and Tanner are only two men, their posture, gear, and their horses are strong enough deterrents for the most courageous or stupid of these common men. No doubt a group out of the crowd will be relieved at being rid of the prisoner without having to actually watch him die. Hopefully, the few who protested against the burning won't face many troubles later.

"We'll have him dealt with at the castle." Sir William says, which Bond might think unnecessary but it's in his fellow knight's nature to keep matters diplomatic where he can. "If anyone wishes to come and file a complaint, they are welcome to do so."

In truth, Tanner is the kinder of the two of them, the one more likely to be patient in dealing with His Majesty's subjects. However, Bond is the one more likely to insert himself into other people's affairs, so Bond is now the one with a witch in his saddle.

"Apologies for depriving you of the entertainment." Bond nods his head once at the people before turning away.

They put some distance between them and the village before James leads them off the royal tract with a memory of a local creek at the back of his mind. The other knight acquiesces to the detour when Bond suggests it.

The royal tract is wide and well-travelled, kept in proper state should the king wish to travel and see the state of his country or move his armies, but Bond has had quite enough of looking at it after several days on horseback. The new narrower path they take towards the creek isn't important or popular with local farmers, though still perfectly passable and Bond welcomes the refreshing sight of blooming wild rose bushes and many varied weed plants.

The man in Bond's arms doesn't seem to feel the same way, and for good reason. He is trembling and has been this way ever since they left the village's borders. He has also made no sound except to whimper when the movement of the horse and Bond's boots in the stirrups jarred his bare feet. It's a good thing Bond has no heavy armour on that would make this more uncomfortable for the both of them. Smell of smoke lingers around them, a constant reminder to the witch but not much of an inconvenience for the knight.

They travel in silence. Bond doesn't have the words for someone who has just avoided his death by a stroke of pure luck and who Death has threatened in his home, not in battle. Bond knows Chance, when an arrow passes him by doing no harm or when his sword finds the weak lines in his foe's armour just when he thought he was about to lose. He doesn't have the words for a man who's pliant and quiet when being carried away only because the one carrying him offers a fate better than death. The witch says nothing and asks no questions, only trembles, trying to curl in on himself while remaining upright on horseback.

Thankfully, they soon reach the creek, running somewhat thinner than usual in the hot summer they're having but the water will be cool as always, shadowed by lines of trees growing thick on either bank. Bond gets off the horse first, then helps his passenger. The witch must have expected to be forced to walk on the ground on his own feet so he makes his surprise known when Bond scoops him up once more and carries him to their destination. There is a big boulder which the knight deems fit to be a seat for a grown man while allowing him to dip his feet in the water. When he deposits the witch on top of it there's a sharp hiss of pain and then, after a moment, a softer sigh.

Once he's convinced the young man won't slide into the water or otherwise leave the spot, Bond turns back to the horses. Tanner is already making himself busy tending to his own, letting the animal benefit from their delay. They are no more than a day and a half of ride away from the castle from which they'd departed a week ago. When Bond joins Tanner they exchange glances and then both look at the witch's back. There isn't much to discuss at this point. They've both seen the same event and Bond doesn't know anything about the witch that Tanner doesn't, so asking whether he's sure about it when the witch is already under their care would be pointless. Although taking a potentially dangerous person with them, not knowing if he might try to literally or figuratively stab them in the back later is not the best of ideas, it's preferable to leaving him at the mercy of villagers who were just as unknown. The two knights agree on that.

Bags at Bond's saddle are full and thoughtfully stocked. Since their travel wasn't long and was diplomatic rather than military, there's hardly anything missing from the equipment and provisions they'd set out with and then refilled in their host's home. Bond looks inside and takes out wide strips of clean linen he plans use to wrap the burns. He has some ointment for clotting cuts and stab wounds which is unlikely to help at this time so he leaves that in. Having retrieved what he needs, Bond turns all his attention to the young man, still sitting docilely on the boulder. He's moving his feet in the water, letting its flow wash the worst of the grime off. Bent over a little, he seems fascinated by the circles spreading over the glinting surface. He's rubbing at his one of his freed wrists absent-mindedly, covering the angry red lines from sight.

The knight has now a chance to look at him properly, without the fire rushing them. A simple long-sleeved shirt clings to sweaty skin. There's some blood on it but it's diluted and not much of it besides, so Bond doesn't worry about it for now. The shirt and dark breeches are all the man has on his person. That, and the one feather which Bond had saved from falling out during their ride by plucking it out of dark curls. The witch never noticed him doing it. The feather is tucked away and for now it can wait, as Bond is more concerned with the burned skin, now submerged and hopefully soothed.

He makes effort to be noisier than he's accustomed to while walking behind the young man's back. Hazel eyes flick over to him when he kneels beside the witch's perch and puts his bare hands in the water. Keeping his rolled-up sleeves from getting wet, he pulls one of the feet out of the water towards himself. When the man twitches, this close to bolting, Bond closes his fingers tighter. The ankle is thin, the bones of the foot delicate. He pulls at the limb again, until the man reluctantly lifts his leg so the knight can look at the sole and toes. His skin is red and blistered on one side but not broken. That's good. Even light burns are painful, as Bond is well aware, but without open wounds it should heal faster. The younger man will have to endure it for another day and then the town's or castle's medic can tend to it properly.

"What have you done to ruffle someone's feathers badly enough to make you a scapegoat?" James starts a conversation, glancing up at the witch's face.

"Ah," the man says. "I suppose, sometimes making friends is not as good as your parents used to tell you."

He seems to be naturally soft-spoken, his voice now coloured with regret besides the fear.

"Someone didn't like you having friends at all or didn't like you to be a particular someone's friend?"

They look at each other for a long moment, each judging the other, forced to quickly make the decision whether to trust or not. Eventually, the witch answers the question.

"The latter. I've lived there for more than a year, you know. Must be two now." He says, as if already defending against whatever the knight might suggest about his character or about his craft.

"Where were you born?"

"Down south, near the coast by the Estuary." He tells Bond, then reaches his hands down and changes the subject: "I can do this myself."

He attempts to regain complete possession of his limbs, looking slightly embarrassed at not having washed himself right away. Bond doesn't terribly mind doing it. Caring for anyone isn't something he does often but he'd seen the daze the witch sat in before and he gave him that time, so now he gently swats the hand away.

"I'll do it better." He states, cutting this part of discussion short. That earns him a huff, indignant enough that the knight doesn't worry as much about the witch's well-being as far as his spirit is concerned.

Bond gets the foot cleaned and wrapped up, and makes the man sit sideways so he can keep it on dry ground. There's more protesting when he makes to grab the other leg and with the witch now slightly more lively, he finds it troublesome. Bond wants them to be on their way soon so he might as well use the opportunity to return the feather now. When he fishes it out of the protective folds of his shirt the young man goes silent, watching, wary. He must have believed they'd taken all of them but he must also recognize this one as his own. He takes it when Bond offers it to him, long fingers trailing lovingly over uneven barbs, shifted out of order. Bond observes him and can't see any shame over being a witch in his expression. There's wariness, certainly, since the witch doesn't know yet what to expect after this. By handing over the feather Bond made it clear he knows the younger man is truly gifted and that he knows the significance of songbird feathers. It tells him that the knight has met witches before, although it doesn't tell him what were the results of those meetings.

"What is your name?" Bond asks. He's not questioning, he's asking politely, asking the witch to share.

"Q." He says, not taking his eyes off the little feather. Bond hasn't expected to get a full name from a witch, so he's hardly offended by getting just the letter. It is a rare letter, too. If Bond were so inclined, he could guess the true name without too much trouble, with the help of a library.

"My name is James."

"Are you from the north, sir James?"

"Yes."

The witch nods to himself, as if confirming something. "You carry the wind with you."

"That's new. They usually say I have the devil on my shoulder."

"No, you don't." Q tells him, with just a hint of a smile on his lips.

From then on Bond has no trouble taking hold of the man's leg and moving it this way and that until he's satisfied with the cleanliness and the freshly secured bandage. He also takes note of scratched up fingertips, hands dirty with soot so dried up and pressed into the folds and lines of the skin it takes a while to get out all of it.

"I'm going to take a guess at your crime," Bond says. "And you can tell me whether I'm a complete fool about it or not." He pauses just long enough for the younger man to tell him to stop, if he wishes. "You were doing your duty, as any hedge witch does. There is also a healer, I think. Probably an older woman, who you were helping with all sorts of tasks. You must be the only witch around if you were the only one being punished, so I assume the healer is a simple human and people came to _you_ when they needed something more than a midwife or herbalist."

Q is looking at him steadily, neither denying nor confirming.

"You showed your competence, so women would come to you too often for their husbands' liking. Or it might have been just one displeased man. If he's respected or feared enough, that's all it takes. It wouldn't have happened were you a woman."

"You've seen a lot in your life, haven't you?" The young man says in way of agreeing. " _He_ must have been digging this pit under my feet for months. No one would have turned against anyone so quick without a reason for it."

James doesn't ask how long the witch had spent locked in one of the huts or perhaps in a dark cellar as a prisoner. No longer than two full days, judging by the growth of his beard and the fact that he's not starving yet. Still, for someone awaiting an unknown fate even two hours would have been too long.

"I would have left if I'd seen it coming." Q states, though there isn't much confidence to be heard in those words. James guesses he would have stayed regardless and tried to talk to that other man, which would not help the matters at all.

"Next time, you need to have more people to watch your back."

He needs more friends or to be under the care of a healer with more influence in the village or, ideally, under the care of another witch.

"There won't be a next time." Comes the answer, short and with feigned, new-found coldness.

Bond isn't about to argue with it or offer unsolicited advice to someone who just narrowly missed death and is still dealing with betrayal. Whether Q would try again or not was a question for a later time, in a different place and for the man to answer on his own. Frankly, Bond isn't very much worried about someone so young.

For now, he wets a balled up piece of cloth and moves to wipe the soot off the witch's face. When the man tries to avoid the touch, James has to grab his chin and hold it. There are some shallow scrapes now visible once the soot comes off. He has wondered about all that black over the witch's skin. It couldn't have come from the stake because it had barely started burning when they interrupted it.

"They burned your house?"

Bond doesn't really need to ask that, he's already guessed correctly. Q doesn't even nod, doesn't speak at all, reverting right back to the silent thing he was before. Briefly, he has the faraway look in his eyes of someone who's lost too much too fast. He also loses the little bit of ease he was showing moments before, as if he just now remembered the harsh truth. It might as well be exactly that. Focused on every moment as it passed, the witch had pushed back the full consequences of what had happened but the reality hasn't changed around him. 

It's unsettling, such loss endured on what should otherwise be a beautiful day, warm and bright.

"We're returning to Mansfield Castle," Bond tells him, squeezing his shoulder once while he stands up. "We will take you there. You'll have food and a roof over your head for however long you might need to rest. You'll be free to choose your direction from there."

"Thank you." It's heartfelt and relieved, and that is that for the time being.


End file.
